


It's a Wonderful Life

by asuralucier



Series: (You're Gonna) Find Another Life to Live [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, But Maybe he doesn't Mind being there, Deepthroating as Sincerest Form of Apology, Dubious Consent, Jason Todd POV, Jason Todd is stuck in Wayne Manor, Jason Todd: kidnap connoisseur, M/M, Moral Ambiguity is Sexy, Pining, Stockholm Syndrome?, Well Adjusted Dick Grayson, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22435990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Jason Todd has a second (or is it third?) bite at the apple - that is, life - but this is somehow not quite how he imagines things going.(Part two of a short series about Bruce Wayne being a tryhard good person re: Jason following the filmUnder the Red Hood. Please find part onehere.)
Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Series: (You're Gonna) Find Another Life to Live [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614292
Comments: 6
Kudos: 91





	It's a Wonderful Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/gifts).



> I erm, wrote this on my lunch? There's one instance of a throwaway reference from the comics. I just really wanted to use "Jason Todd: kidnap connoisseur" as a tag.

“Master Jason? Master Jason, have you come to? Oh, thank goodness.” 

The last thing Jason remembers is pulling a gun on a guy. A Doctor Arstasian, who’s not exactly who he says he is. Jason’s big on honesty these days: he’s tired of keeping track of who he is, who everybody else thinks he is, and the person he thought he’d become. It’s all a bit hard to square. It’s why wearing the Red Hood mask is a godsend; he knows who he is with that thing on, knows how to carry a criminal’s burden. It comes much easier, much more naturally to Jason than the muddled mantle that Bruce fucking Wayne has always insisted they carry as Batman and Robin. Asking Bruce to explain Batman’s particular philosophy as it relates to apprehending criminals, but also not doing anything to help the bigger problem plaguing Gotham, is like watching the man have a coronary in real time. 

As far as Jason is concerned, prison is the worst place for these people. It’d be more straightforward if they were just all put into the ground. 

“Master Jason?” 

It sounds like Alfred; after all, no one else calls him _Master Jason_. But that doesn’t make any sense. Jason’s getting used to seeing Bruce around again (kind of), but Alfred’s an anomaly. Maybe the good Doctor had slipped him something before Jason had managed to shoot him in the head. Jason’s not in a good state. Guy probably doesn’t even need an alphabet soup after his name to see that. 

Jason’s not really come to just yet. But he’s trying really hard. A raw, scorching pain courses through him, and that should have been nothing new. Pain has followed Jason Todd for most of his life, and he must be feeling it now, because he’s lying somewhere that’s soft, with pillows, and there is an incessant beeping noise that’s flooding his eardrums.

“Master Jason?” 

Something is _wrong_. Jason can’t put it into words, but he’s learned to trust a certain sort of wrong as it pours like sticky tar in his gullet. Something is wrong and he blinks blearily, trying to regain as much of himself as humanly possible. (That’s something else - Jason doesn’t feel quite human nowadays.) 

There’s a vase within arm’s reach. Jason reaches for it, hurls the damn thing at the offending shape of Alfred Pennyworth - what the fuck is he even _doing_ here? 

That exercise ends up taking a lot more than Jason has in reserve. His vision shorts before him, like an old television. Bruce is there now too, standing beside the figure that is still shaped like Alfred. They’re speaking. Jason can hear the low murmuring of voices, but he can’t make out any words.

And then suddenly, Jason is so tired all over again. 

When Jason really comes to the second time, things are still more or less the same. 

He’s in a bed, he’s hooked up to a heart monitor and a what looks like an IV drip, and -

Somebody’s restrained his hands and feet. And yet, as Jason methodically tries to push against them, he comes to the realization that the cuffs only tighten when he struggles. If he relaxes, then the cuffs relax with him. It’s almost like his captors (who are oddly shaped like Bruce and Alfred) want him to be comfortable. 

Jason runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth, trying to track for any sense of foreign taste. 

Nothing. At least, nothing that he recognizes as out of the ordinary. 

He lies back with a soft thump into the pillows. Jason opens his mouth and no sound comes out. It hurts to clear his throat, but he doesn’t mind. “Hey! You fuckers! What’s the big idea?” 

The door to his room clicks, and a man steps inside. It still looks like Bruce, but Jason thinks he gets it now. But before he has a chance to say his piece, Bruce beats him to it. He stands over Jason, the way he always does, like he’s got the gall to pretend he’s better. 

Bruce looks down at Jason, but doesn’t quite meet his gaze. “I’m sorry I’ve had to restrain you. You could have seriously injured Alfred with that vase.” 

At this, Jason feels ever so slightly terrible. His beef has always been with Bruce, with Bruce’s lack of conviction, at Bruce’s nonsensical play at vigilantism. He supposes, that some of that anger could be directed at Alfred for enabling Bruce, but if he’s gonna go there, he’s gonna have to go lots of places and Jason doesn’t have the energy right now. Everything feels a bit thin around him. 

“He okay?” 

“I gave him the evening off.” 

“Hot date?” Jason smirks. It hurts to move his mouth. He must have taken a punch to the jaw that he can’t quite remember. 

“Dick came over with some Chinese.” Bruce gestures, and Jason looks again to see that the man is indeed holding a plate of Chinese, most of the brown-yellow lumps some degree of wet or oily. 

“Ah, yes, my replacement.” 

That lands, the way that Jason doesn’t expect it to. But maybe nobody bothers to tell Bruce the truth nowadays. He’s not used to that, anymore. 

“It’s not like that.” 

Jason and Bruce can’t exactly trade blows at this juncture, but words do well enough. It floods the room with familiarity, and suddenly Jason remembers all the times that he’s lost an argument and retreated to his room to sulk. To this room to sulk. A sound, almost like a laugh bubbles out of him then, and Bruce looks...distressed. 

Well, Jason knows to press his advantage, if nothing else. “Then what the hell is it like, Bruce? You call him Robin; he brings you Chinese since without Alfred you can’t even work a microwave.” 

Bruce glances down at the plate in his hand. “I warmed this.” The funny thing is, even he doesn’t sound entirely convinced. 

“Right.” 

“Dick isn’t your replacement. He isn’t you.” 

Anger has been a lifelong companion of Jason’s. The world is unfair, and his anger understands that. And yet his anger has never been a defense against Bruce’s honesty - what he wants most from Bruce. 

Jason says, a beat too late, “I don’t think that’s how replacements work.” 

Bruce steps closer to him. “If you don’t do anything stupid with your hands, I’ll untie you so you can eat.” 

“That’s kind of you.” 

Bruce unties him without saying anything else. Jason is only too glad to start rubbing the feeling back into his wrists and hands. Bruce also tells Jason that there’s a salve for his hands if he needs it in the end table drawer. 

Jason can’t bring himself to thank him. 

Being septic really sucks. Being septic means that he feels weak most of the time and even if Jason had a mind to break a window to breath fresh air, he can’t muster up the strength. 

Being held captive in the Wayne Manor sucks too, but not as much. 

“What...are you doing?” 

Jason stops glaring at the window and turns to see Dick Grayson standing in the doorway to his bedroom. Not that Jason really thinks of it as his bedroom but it’s difficult to not form an attachment to a space if he’s been stuck there for days and days. 

“I’m trying to break this window,” Jason says, hitting the glass palm flat. 

“Looks like you’re not trying very hard,” Dick says. 

Jason stares. “Excuse me?” 

“I’m just saying.” Dick shrugs, and with that gesture, the conversation ends. He closes the door behind him, but doesn’t lock the door. “Hi, I’m Dick.” 

Jason looks at the other man’s proffered hand. “I figured.” 

“Well, it’s polite.” 

“Let’s not and say we did.” Jason doesn’t know exactly why he’s so set towards being impolite to Dick. Dick Grayson, the other Robin, hasn’t exactly done anything to him, except you know, try to kill (obstruct) Red Hood, which is kind of baked into being Robin. Just like how Batman is baked into Robin by association. So yeah, maybe Jason does have a right to be mad. 

Dick takes this in stride, sticks his hands back into his pockets. “Okay. Want some company? Or are you okay sulking on your own?” 

Dick is a lot. Jason suddenly feels the softness of the bed calling to him again and makes his way towards it. But just as suddenly, the bed seems to pull farther and farther away from him, on account of the floorboards beneath his feet turning into quicksand. 

Jason falls, but he doesn’t hit the floor. Dick has an arm around under his armpits. 

“Easy.”

Jason shakes him off and makes a bold sprint for the bed, the best he can. He just about makes it. “And you. Are you just okay with this, too? You don’t think it’s _criminal_ what he’s doing to me?” 

Dick’s smile slips a little, but only a little. He sinks down and crosses his legs next to the bed. From there, he stares up at Jason who settles himself in under the covers. 

“I mean, you’re septic. That’s pretty serious, yeah?” 

“Fuck you.” 

Dick isn’t like Jason himself or Bruce. Dick has humor as a notch on his belt, kept as sharp as any knife in his battery of weapons. But he also has the smarts to know that it’s time to switch gears. Dick steeples his fingers under his chin. “Do you want to get out of here, Jason?” 

“What kind of fuck question is that?” Jason scowls. 

“It’s a question, with no fucks in it.” Dick looks at him. “Bruce is out. He had to do something at the office, and I think Alfred’s gardening. If you wanted, I could get you downstairs, and you could walk out the front door. But then you’d never come back.” 

Jason could have done without that last part. 

Dick lets the silence sink in, and somehow, the affable smile that’s just stuck on his face (miles away from the smirk that Jason knows he himself wears well enough) just makes it that much worse. 

“You know, most people are awful at kidnapping.” Jason says.

“It’s because it involves people,” Dick agrees. “What are you comparing this to?” 

“Talia Al Ghul,” Jason says. “It’s a long story. And, some others too, I guess.” 

Dick glances pointedly at his watch. “I’ve got noodles of time.” 

Later, Dick brings them pizza. Extra cheese. “I hear you don’t like Chinese. I bet Talia Al Ghul never let you have pizza.” 

Now that, Jason can’t argue with. “Bruce told you that?” 

“We talk, from time to time,” Dick says with his mouth full. 

“We didn’t talk at all,” Jason says, and suddenly, he knows this to be truer than anything else he has ever known about his relationship with Bruce Wayne. It makes him want to throw up. 

“Hey -” 

And that’s how Bruce finds them: Jason retching into the toilet like he’s suffering from the world’s worst hangover, and Dick holding his hair back to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself too much. 

“He might have had a bit of bad pizza,” Dick says. “It’s my fault.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Jason manages to say, somehow. He’s so tired of everyone taking responsibility for things that ought to be Bruce’s fault. 

“Never mind,” Dick shushes him. “Get up.” 

With Dick on one side and Bruce on the other, Jason is escorted back to bed. He’s deposited on top of the covers, and he can see the two other men passing glances between them. Something that Jason isn’t privy to. 

“I’ve got to be going,” Dick speaks finally, breaking the silence. “I’ll come see you soon, okay?” 

“If I’m still here,” Jason says, it sounds markedly less funny when it’s out of his mouth, with Bruce standing there like a stone statue. 

But Dick doesn’t seem to notice. “If you’re still here, sure.” 

And then it’s just him and Bruce, again. 

“You shouldn’t overexert yourself,” Bruce says. He tugs the covers out from under Jason with remarkable deftness and motions that Jason should settle in more. 

“I was having _pizza_. But I did try to punch a window, earlier.” 

Bruce looks towards the windows. But then he doesn’t say anything. He merely adjusts the covers around Jason and his fingers brush, surely by accident, by the bruise still stretched over Jason’s jaw.

“How’d you get this?” 

“You mean it wasn’t you?” 

“No,” Bruce nearly smiles, “I’d remember.” 

Even a touch as light as this from Bruce is doing odd things to Jason’s system, but since he’s already taken vomiting out of the equation, the rest is fine. “Liar.” 

Bruce withdraws and Jason is suddenly sorry. Bruce says, “Get some rest.” The lock to his bedroom door clicks, and Jason, left with not very much to do, closes his eyes. 

Jason earns privileges around the Wayne Manor. Slowly but surely. He’s allowed to dress in things other than pajamas, but Dick’s old clothes don’t really fit him. He’s allowed to use a cane to hobble around. He’s allowed to raid the refrigerator for snacks and more often than not, he’s hungry.

He’s still not allowed outside, but Alfred suggests he go down to the Batcave as an alternative. 

“At this rate, I’ll probably develop a Vitamin D deficiency,” Jason says. 

Alfred says, “I will make sure that there’s a glass of milk waiting for you before you retire, Master Jason. You used to like it when I did that for you.” 

Jason did used to like that. But he’s not about to give Alfred the satisfaction, even if he does feel bad about throwing a vase at his head. “Yeah, all right.” 

“Why do you still have that?” 

Broken down to its simplest components, his Robin costume isn’t anything. Just something to keep his balls warm maybe. But Bruce has it on display like it’s somehow important to him. 

Bruce says, “It helps me remember.” 

Jason swallows _remember what?_ for something else. He’s not sure what, but then it just slips out. “It was the best day of my life.”

“You also took a bullet in the ankle.” 

So he does remember. “Still. I thought my life would change, that I’d...be less of a prisoner. Make my own choices.” 

Bruce has stopped typing and a heavy silence punctuates the room, sitting carefully atop the humming of the computer screens. “But your life did change, Jason. You didn’t end up in prison, or wasting away in the Narrows. I -” 

“Don’t.” Jason forces out, the word but it’s barely anything. He’s heard this all before. It’s Bruce’s _pièce de résistance_ , the crowning jewel in his construction of himself as a good, moral man. “That’s insulting, Bruce, all right? I’m not a kid. The least you can do is not _insult_ me.” 

Bruce says, “Sorry.” Like he’s not really thinking about it either. 

There’s suddenly not enough air underground. Jason has to get out of there, and he can’t limp to the elevator fast enough. 

This is technically his second (or is it third?) bite at the apple - that is, life - but this isn’t really how it’s meant to go. For one thing, Jason never imagined to be a captive in the grand estate where he grew up, or indeed, standing in front of his own grave with the dirt still damp and fresh and shoving his tongue down Bruce Wayne’s throat. He wonders if he tastes like he hasn’t brushed his teeth. Jason is pretty sure he hasn’t, he doesn’t always remember to, now. 

And then Bruce has the gall to ask him, “Where do we go from here?” as if Jason knows. 

“Beats me.” Bruce is starting to get lines on his face. The sort of lines that no amount of riches can erase because those lines come from years and years of guilt piling up. 

Things are different between them after that. Even Dick notices, but Jason is beginning to think the other Robin is some sort of people savant. 

“I’m not really Robin. I’m Nightwing, now,” Dick tells him, “stop changing the subject.” 

“What subject?” Jason stands by the window. He clenches his fist. He’s strong enough now to break the glass if he’s careful. But he doesn’t need to. The doors aren’t locked anymore, and sometimes Jason spends time outside. Mostly by his own grave. Alfred leaves out a chair for him. 

“Your plans. What you’re going to do now?” 

What Jason would like to do is Bruce Wayne, maybe. But no fucking way he’s telling Dick that ever. “I still think he’s wrong. Bruce is wrong. It’s like emptying salt out of the sea.” 

Dick comes to the window and stops next to him. “Okay, let’s not get complicated. I more meant, are you going to leave?” 

Strictly speaking, Jason is well enough to leave. He’s incurred new scars, but that's nothing new. The bruise near his jaw has just faded now into a vague scratch. Nearly Joker-esque, but not quite. Most days, he takes the time to cover it up with some concealer that Alfred has stealthily placed in his bathroom. The last thing he wants to do is to remind Bruce of the Joker. The concealer itches though, sometimes, and Jason has to fight the itch to scratch. 

“What, you miss me out on the streets or something? Not getting enough exercise?” 

Dick makes an amused sound in his throat. “You want to know something?” 

“You’re gonna tell me anyway.” 

“I wouldn’t have been able to kill the Joker if he killed Bruce,” Dick says. “I thought about it a lot afterwards. If I were you. If I could. And I can’t.” 

“You’re a bleeding heart,” Jason says. 

“True.” Dick shrugs. “But you aren’t like that. And neither is Bruce. The difference between you is that you’ve come to terms with it, and he hasn’t. He probably won’t. And so he needed you to be - well. How you are. What he couldn’t be.” 

“Please don’t headshrink me. I have a migraine.” Not quite, but Jason can feel it start. 

“Where are you going?” 

Jason has a rucksack slung over one shoulder with a few changes of clothes inside. All of his worldly possessions. He tries to tell himself that he hadn’t meant for Bruce to catch him in the act, but that’s a lie. Dick’s paid him a compliment, at least, Jason is going to tell himself that much of a lie, and no more. 

Jason shrugs. “I’m going to step out of this door, leave the confines of this estate, and then who knows. The city’s my oyster.” 

Bruce is wearing a dressing gown. The thing’s even monogrammed in gold thread. **B.W.**

“Don’t leave.”

Jason sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. He lets go of the doorknob and stands with his back to the door, purposefully positioning himself so that the doorknob is digging into his spine. It’s so he won’t forget. Won’t make a mistake. Won’t let Bruce and his lies get into the way of what needs doing. 

“I think you forget who I am, Bruce. You buried me, and then you forgot all about me." Jason shrugged. "Sure, you think of a Jason Todd, maybe. But that’s not me.” 

Bruce is one of the very few men that Jason knows can still move in a dignified way in sleepwear. He crosses to where Jason in and pins him against the door. Bruce has recently had a shower, and the scent of him, fresh and sharp, takes over all of Jason’s senses. They kiss. Like they’ve been doing it a long time, and not just thinking about it. Bruce presses a thumb against Jason’s jaw and Jason winces. 

“Bruce -” 

The man has concealer on his thumb. “I want to see you as you are. I haven’t forgotten. That I made a damn mistake. That what happened to you was all my fault.” 

The next kiss that they share is just as wretched. Kind of like they’re exchanging blows instead of spit. 

“Hey,” Jason grabs a fistful of Bruce’s hair and angles the man’s face away from him. “You don’t fucking get to take credit for every damn thing. Either I was making my own decisions or I was your mistake.” 

Bruce swallows, “But.” 

Jason says, “Shut up.”

And miraculously, Bruce does. He looks a bit winded, like Jason has gone and slapped him in the face. And Jason does want to punch him in his fucking face, but maybe he wants answers more. Violence is easy, there’s always plenty of it to be found. Right now, violence is not what he wants from Bruce. 

“Do you,” Jason begins. He takes care to speak slowly, because he only gets to say this once. “Do you think it’s your fault that I died?” 

The quiet stretches so long between them that Jason is suddenly afraid that Bruce won’t answer. 

But then Bruce slides his gaze towards the carpet. “Yes. Yes, I think it was my fault. I know it was my fault. I should have seen that it was a ploy.” 

“Look at me.” 

Bruce does, just barely. “Yes, Jason. The fact that you died was my fault.” 

Jason moves to break Bruce’s hold, and the man doesn’t fight him on this. “Then stop punishing yourself for it and fucking just _apologize_.” 

It's almost as if something's broke. Its snap so tangible it might have been a real sound. Bruce reaches for him, and sighs against Jason’s mouth, and also with a hand holding his hip, keeping him in place. This time, the touch is close to gentle, sort of. Or maybe Jason is that used to pain. Bruce says, over and over again, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

They move to Bruce's study where Jason leans against his desk upsetting all of the papers on it. It's here that Bruce finds other ways of apologizing with his mouth, too. And Jason isn’t going to lie, it feels pretty great. It’s enough that Jason can bring Bruce Wayne to his knees. He doesn’t need anyone else to know. 

Bruce undoes the buckle of his belt and slides Jason’s jeans down to his ankles and before he can prepare to take Jason into his mouth, Jason pushes in and Bruce gags. But then he relaxes and it’s like he’ll take anything. To put it very crudely, Jason’s gone to several hells and then back again for Bruce to suck his cock so he’s damn well earned it.

Bruce seems to know this too. He lets Jason guide him, switching between swallowing him down, and then sometimes, letting Jason grip himself, tracing his wet head of his dick over the bruised outline of Bruce’s mouth. 

Jason fucks his mouth just like that, hard, quick, like he’s on a mission. Even when he fucks Bruce down his throat just this side of too deep, the man still groans against his cock. Jason almost wonders if this is Bruce's first time - that is, his first time getting his mouth fucked. He hopes it is, not in a cruel way. Just in a way that means that he'll have something else of Bruce to keep to himself.

And then Jason comes, Bruce jerks at the suddenness of it but then doubles down and sucks him in, until Jason can’t - he can’t - 

“Oh, _fuck_. Bruce, _fuck_.” Bruce's name claws its way out of Jason's throat, like it's been wanting to for a long time. It has. 

A little later, Bruce clears his throat. He seems to have come too, in the excitement of it all. Or at least, he seems close to it, he’s hard and the edge of his dressing gown is wet. Jason isn’t going to ask. 

Bruce says, still on his knees, “You’re going to stay.” It’s not a question, even though it should be. Bruce isn’t a man who asks questions. He’s a man with the answers, even though his mouth is fucked and red.

Jason looks away from him. “Yeah, well. I’ll think about it.”


End file.
